I’m back in Brooklyn again. I spent yesterday from 6 am to 11 pm in airports all over the country, and I hadn’t slept at all the previous night, having gotten home from the bar at 2 am to pack my suitcase only to discover that someone had hit my dad’s car in the parking lot, so I had to wake him up to say goodbye, ask him to drive me to the airport, and tell him that the hood of his car was not in its normal place. That was a lot of fun, especially since earlier this week, my brother had to tell him that his fancy new lawnmower had been stolen. From in front of the house. While my brother was inside. As Brian Byrne said, it was a bad week for my dad’s stuff.
Going home is hard, and so is coming back. Every time it gets a little bit easier, but every time I also have this long interior monologue that disintegrates into me asking myself WHAT ARE YOU DOING EXACTLY, SARAH? and then I answer myself by crying or drinking or falling asleep or chopping my arm, David Byrne-style. However, this isn’t all that different from every single day of my life, so I’m used to it now.
Vandalism and theft aside, it was a very good trip. I’d forgotten how good the midwest smells. I have a million things more to say about it all, but right now my window is open and it smells like rain outside, so I’m going to go lie on my bed and think things over, write some letters I probably won’t send, and then a few that I will.